


Diurnal Dreaming #6: Discord

by maven



Series: Diurnal Dreaming [6]
Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 20:20:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/996151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maven/pseuds/maven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A change in attitude leads to a change in relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diurnal Dreaming #6: Discord

**Author's Note:**

> This series is mainly canon up to the end of Season 5. Everything after that is in the vague realm of "didn't happen"... sort of like the sequels to the Matrix and Star Wars 1-3.

"What are you wearing?"

"What?"

"What are you wearing?" I repeat. "And what are you doing? Right now and for the next twenty minutes?"

I can hear the squeak of her chair over the cell phone, which answers part of my question. "I'm doing my paperwork in my office, likely an hour worth. And my tan suit. Why?"

"Well, I was thinking spaghetti but remembered last time."

"That was your fault."

"I agreed it was my fault at the time. But you had the spaghetti stain on your blouse for two hours."

"I'm good for spaghetti," she assures me.

"Fine. I'll be there in about ten minutes."

"See you then," she says and cuts the connection.

This was another one of our new traditions that had followed Catherine finding me in the garage after one of my meltdown assignments. I'd swing by one of the many take out joints on my way into work to pick up breakfast for myself and supper for Catherine. Something hot if she had time, something I could stick it into her office's bar fridge if she was out on a scene. It was largely a coping strategy to delay my arrival at the office to only a half hour early and to ease into things when I got there.

I arrive with two takeout dishes of spaghetti and a tinfoil wrap of garlic bread. She's already got two sodas and the cutlery out. "Remember," she says. "No jokes while I'm eating."

"Look, when I agreed that it was my fault I wasn't really agreeing that it was my fault, just that you could say it was my fault."

"But it was your fault."

"If you say so," I grin. "But you dropped it on your blouse."

"Because I was laughing at your joke."

I'm feeling a little bit goofy for some reason, trying to come up with a way to continue this when there's a knock on the door.

"Sara, are you able to start early?"

I look up at Catherine who is looking with annoyance over my shoulder. I turn. "Can be, Gil. What's up?"

"I need you to meet Sofia here,” he says, handing me a slip. “Take double kit in the Tahoe, she's meeting you there."

"No problem," I say, putting the lid on the spaghetti. I'm about to ask Catherine to put it into her fridge so I can nuke it later but there's something off with Grissom. "Is there a problem?"

"Yes. I want your eyes on this one. I'm sorry."

I look at him and he looks like someone just stepped on his spider. I turn back to my breakfast, finish crimping the lid and then toss it in Catherine's trash can. "Me too."

+++++

I knew she'd find me. I slam down the back of the Tahoe, turn, and she's an arm length away.

"You're starting to disconnect," she stated.

"Catherine, please," I say, angry at the sun for setting so I couldn't put on my sunglasses. "I need to do my job. I can't do this with you now and do my job."

She looks like she wants to argue more but settles for simply nodding. "Fine. I'm sticking around after my shift to finish the weeklies. If you need to talk."

I nod, not trusting my voice.

"Here," she says, handing me a travel mug. "If Greg asks you have no idea what happened to his Thermos," she warns and I can only nod again.

+++++

I can see two LVPD cruisers and Brass' car as I pull up. I'm opening the back when Sofia arrives. She just nods, grabs a vest and kit and together we head to where Brass is waiting on the front step.

"Evening, ladies," he says. I don't imagine the extra look I get. Brass is a great detective and he caught the last meltdown scene of mine a couple of months ago.

"What have we got?"

"You've seen worse," he reassures me and I smile gratefully while Sofia looks puzzled. "The father got a bit -rambunctious- and is at the station. The kids are in the kitchen with one of my officers. Child services is on the way."

Sofia's senior so I glance at her. "We'll process here, save the kitchen for last."

"And the kids?" Brass asks

"They, ah," I start. I hate referring to living people as pieces of evidence.

"My guys spotted signs."

"At the station," Sofia decides. "When social's had a chance to talk to them. Let's get started."

+++++

The kids are younger than Lindsey, my new benchmark for deciding kid's ages. They look at Sofia and I warily.

"Did Ms Andersen explain what we have to do?" Sofia asks. Two sets of eyes rivet on the large digital camera she holds in her hands. "Guess so," she mutters to me.

I step to the nearest, sinking to my knees. He flinches away without really moving.

"Sofia's going to take some pictures while I talk to you," I tell him. A stubborn look crosses his face.

"I'm not supposed to talk to strangers," he says.

I hand him my badge to examine. "We're just going to talk about stuff, not why you're here or about what happened. Okay?"

He hands the badge back and we begin.

I ask him his name. About his school. His friends. TV shows. Baseball and his bike. At first he flinches every time Sofia moves into his peripheral vision, every time he hears the click of the camera, but soon he ignores her. When she's done he buttons pulls on his shirt and jeans, staring at me. His brother watches silently and strips to his briefs without being asked when it's his turn.

"What will happen to us?" the eldest one finally asks.

I hate this question. When they ask about themselves. Not what happened to Mom or what happened to Dad or when will they pick me up. "I don't know for sure. But you'll go to someone else's house for a few days at least. Someone you can talk to about this."

Andersen and Brass are waiting outside. With the promise of a bite to eat before bed Andersen takes the boys.

"I hate these things," Brass mutters to no one in particular before heading in the opposite direction.

"Word was you weren't good with kids," Sofia says when we're alone.

"That's the word," I agree.

"And the truth?"

"I'm great with kids. I just hate them at work," I say. I reach for the camera. "I'll detail the photos."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. You did the hard part in there. Least I can do is the hard part in the lab." I escape before she can reply.

+++++

I write down the words 'consistent with 2cm leather belt'. I turn to the next photo and jot down the same notation. I realize I've spelt 'consistent' wrong and throw my pen down hard, causing it to skitter across the table and floor to the open door. I stare down at the evidence. Bruises, cuts, pain, tears and my fists start to ball and clench.

"Hey," Catherine says sharply from the doorway. She's holding my pen. I don't -can't- acknowledge her, just close my eyes and look down trusting the distance and hair to offer some privacy.

Right. "I thought you'd have gone home by now," I mutter. Its hours after her shift end.

I hear her and then feel her hand resting on the small of my back, which somehow overrides my own nervous system. I straighten, hands relaxed at my side, and watch her from the corner of my eye. She looks at the evidence, my face and then calmly turns one of the photos upside down, placing it so that it hides the rest.

"No. Thought I'd better stick around a bit. Stand up," she orders and I comply without thought. "Hug," she warns me before doing so.

There is no sex, no attraction, no physical want or need. Only comfort. I hold her tightly until I'm distracted by a thud in the corridor. I look up to see Greg standing in the doorway rubbing his forehead. I'm not sure if the glazed look in his eyes was from impacting the door jam or his imagination.

"You okay now?" Catherine asks me, ignoring Greg.

"Yeah. Thanks. I'll be able to finish this."

"I'll find you before I leave to make sure."

"Thanks," I say, sitting back down on my stool.

"No problem," she says, walking calmly out the door. "Mind out of the gutter, Sanders," she says as she passes Greg.

"You. Her. I---" Greg stammered. I can see him in my mind's eye and don't bother looking up from the report where I'm cataloging damage.

"Greg, you wanna ask yourself if you want to piss off the two people most likely to be investigating your slow and painful death."

"Bad idea?"

"You so do not want to go anywhere near there."

"But its okay to just keep it to myself. Mull it over? Visual replay--"

"Get out of here, Greg."

"Yes, ma'am," he says. He's back seconds later holding up the file. "Report from Trace. It's negative."

"Look again."

"Sara, I--" he begins to protest.

"I'm not criticizing your work. I'm saying look again. There's a difference between not there and not seen. Make sure it's not there."

"Okay, then. I'll get back to doing that."

+++++

Its not there and, somehow, the bastard knows it. He's smug as Brass sits him down across from me before taking up his intimidation stance just within the peripheral vision. There's a tap on the door and Catherine walks in, handing me a file folder as an excuse for being there. She sits down beside me as I look inside.

The lone piece of paper inside is blank.

The interview goes badly. The smugness turns to arrogance and I can feel even Catherine's temper begin to fray. Eventually Brass admits defeat and grabs the suspect by the upper arm, assisting him to stand so quickly the chair skitters back. "Come on," he said, shooting me a warning look. "Let's lock you up, safe and sound."

"Sara," Catherine begins as the door shuts.

"God damn it," I yell, standing and slamming the file down. Pictures and reports and statements fly out, covering the table.

"Sara," she tries again as she stands but I hold my hands up, pushing her to back off without touching her. Forbidding her from touching me.

"No. Don't ask me to be reasonable or understanding. Because there is no reason. There is no sense. No justice here at all."

She's in my face. "Just because it's not the charge you wanted?"

"Me?" I ask. "What about the victims? He should be going away for years, not maybe a few months if we're lucky. How is that just?"

She reaches for my arm but I twist, and her fingers only briefly catch my shirtsleeve. I can feel my body tense into fight or flight and I can't do either.

"It's something," she says. "That has to be good enough."

"It wasn't good enough for you," I remind her harshly.

She grabs again and this time her fingers wrap around my arm. "Not at the time. Nothing would have been enough at the time. But it was enough for Lindsey to get on with her life and that's what's important."

"I failed," body vibrating because it wants to leave so badly. But if I leave it'll be to do something stupid. To hit a wall until the physical pain matches the emotional. Or to hit a bottle until the emotional pain is deadened with the toxins and poisons the alcohol contains.

"The evidence wasn't there," Catherine says softly. "Not then. Not now. Take what you can get."

"It's not my nature," I hiss.

"Oh, sweetheart," she says, grabbing my other arm and pulling me toward her. "I know it's not. But it's killing you."

Doubtless she was planning another comforting hug, like the one in the lab. But my hands go higher, guiding her face to mine and my mouth to hers.

We've kissed before. Good night kisses when she's dropped me off. They were simple kisses. Not without passion but perhaps without heat. Affection without desire.

This is fire.

I feel myself being maneuvered a turning step so that I bang up against the interview table which is suddenly half supporting me. I catch a glimpse of us in the reflective surface of the viewing window before my eyes close. Catherine pushing into me and me curling around her.

And then it changes. The fire banks, the desire dims. The affection, and maybe something deeper, returns. She steps away, hands sliding down to mine.

"Why?" I ask.

"You needed to connect to something again," she says. "To break whatever was holding you. I thought a hug--"

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I shouldn't have--"

"Don't," she says, squeezing my hands, mischievous smile appearing. "I've learned to take what I can get."

"It hurts."

"I know," she says. There's a knock on the door and she slowly releases my hands.

"Sara? Catherine?" Brass asks as he opens the door. He doesn't enter, just looks around the door. He looks mildly surprised at what he sees; no blood, no arguments.

"Just cleaning up, Jim," Catherine says as I begin sorting the papers back into the file.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah. We'll be out of here in five if you need the room."

"No problem," he says. "Listen. I know this wasn't how any of us wanted this to end. Sometimes you just have to take what you can get."

I laugh. I actually laugh and hear the amusement when I was expecting something bitter and hurting. "I'm learning that," I say.

He looks at me sharply, then shakes his head and turns his attention to Catherine. "You should get home."

"Yes, dad," she says and he shakes his head again and leaves.

The papers are in the file and I tap it a few times to square them up. "Guess I better get this all to the vault. See you later," I ask tentatively.

"Can I change the routine?" she asks and I feel a lump of disappointment form in my gut.

"Sure."

"It's the real weekend so I want to spend time with Lindsey. Can we change breakfast/supper to a movie night at our place?"

"Sure," I say in amazement.

"Okay," she says. "Around seven. Take out. Couple of movies with Lindsey, maybe one on our own."

"Sure," I say, realizing I sound like a broken record.

"See you then."

+++++

I open the front door to find Lindsey. She's dressed in a chauffeur's jacket and cap and bows over her gloved hand. "Madam's limo," she says.

She leads me to the car, opening the back door and helping me with the seat belt before going around to the other side and joining me. "Shouldn't you be upfront?" I ask her as Catherine pulls away from the curb.

"I can't drive," she says.

"Nice uniform."

"Thanks. It's Mom's. She has a great big box full of costumes."

"Oh," I say, biting my tongue so I don't add anything that might get me kicked out of the car. I catch Catherine's eye through the rear view mirror.

"Go ahead. Say it," she says from the driver's seat.

"No. My imagination fails."

"She has a cool cowgirl one. Well, most of one. A hat and vest and chaps," Lindsey supplies. "And cap pistols."

"Lindsey, that's enough," says in a warning tone.

"Yes, please. My imagination isn't the only thing failing now," I say and watch as Catherine's cheeks flush.

"That's like one of the jokes in Shrek? Where all the grown-ups laugh but none of the kids do?" Lindsey asks.

"Yeah. Sorry. I'll try not to make too many of those," I say.

"That's okay," she said. "Old people need all the jokes they can get."

+++++

Supper was Chinese take out, the movies were Disney and there was both microwave and stove top popcorn. Lindsey had complained briefly before heading to bed, giving me a quick hug before disappearing to her room.

“Up for another movie,” Catherine asked after tucking her in.

I wasn’t sure about a movie but I was positive I didn’t want to go home. “Sounds great.”

At some point, when we were finishing off the last of the popcorn, I'd found her fingers instead of a kernel. Obviously I had my priorities right because our hands had become entangled and we hadn't bothered to separate them.

"Guess I should drive you home," Catherine said.

"You're tired. I can grab a cab."

"Will you be able to sleep? And tell the truth."

I think it over. I'm tempted to lie but can't bring myself to.

"No. Not tonight," I admit. "But I'll be okay. I've missed lost of night sleeps and I'm off tomorrow so I--"

"Sara," she interrupts. My thumb is rubbing against her knuckles and I focus on the play of skin over joints.

"Can I stay here?" I hear myself ask. "Tonight?"

She looks at me, long and hard. "If you stay tonight Lindsey will see you in the morning."

I nod and smile and start to stand up. "I understand--"

Only to be pulled back down onto the couch. "I hadn't finished. If Lindsey sees you I want it to be because we're building something together, even if we decide it's just going to be friendship. Not because of something casual or fleeting."

"I understand," I say. And I do. And it should require a lot more thought because this isn't a commitment to one person all of a sudden. "May I stay tonight?"

"You may," she says with a smile.

"You got a blanket and pillow I can borrow? The couch--"

"Isn't necessary," she says, "unless you want to keep this as friendship."

I manage to shake my head and somehow she's in my lap, sitting across my knees and we're necking like a couple of high school kids. Some kind of mix of our goodnight kisses and what happened in the interview room and something new. The affection plus the desire, the something deeper plus the fire and I can feel myself becoming lost.

"No," I say abruptly, pushing her away. She looks at me with equal amounts disbelief and confusion. "I don't want you to be my new alcohol," I explain.

"Ah," she says with a slight smile. "I think that's the nicest turn down I've ever had."

"I doubt that."

"That it was the nicest?"

"That anyone else would be stupid enough to turn you down."

"You're not stupid. You're not simple, either."

"Maybe you deserve someone simple."

"Maybe I deserve someone complicated and intricate. Someone who takes time to learn about. Takes an effort on my part so I know I'm actually learning about you and not making assumptions," she explains, poking me in the sternum for emphasis. She gets up and looks down at me. "So if we're not going to bed and we're not going to sleep, what are we doing?"

"Watch 'Finding Nemo' with me?"

"Sure. I'll get the popcorn."

++++

There is a huge weight on my chest. I crack my eyes open against the morning sun.

"Lindsey."

"Did you and Mom fight?" she asks, giving a little bounce on the word fight.

"Good morning."

"Answer." Bounce.

"No. We didn't. Why?"

"You're sleeping on the couch. Daddy would sleep on the couch when they fought. When they were still married. I remember that."

"No, we didn't fight," I assure her. "We watched some more movies and it was late and--"

"But you were kissing her," she says, leaning forward. "I saw you in the kitchen last night when you were supposed to be making popcorn." She sounds angrier at the memory of her popcorn being delayed than me kissing her mom.

"Ummm," I stall, wondering desperately where the hell Catherine is.

"Do you like Mom?"

"Yes," I say, automatically, "of course I do."

"No. Do you like her," she stresses, bouncing a little on the word 'like'. No ribs crack.

"Yes, Lindsey. I like her a lot."

"You're going to tell her? About your daddy?"

"As soon as I can do it without crying like a baby."

"She likes you."

"How do you know?"

"She kissed you and let you stay."

"I figured."

"If you tell her, maybe you won't feel so sad about the people the bad guys hurt."

"Maybe a little. I think I'll always feel sad. This one made me very sad."

"Did you get the bad guy?"

"Sort of. It was like with your dad's case. We got him on a lesser charge but we know he did something worse."

"That sucks."

"Yeah."

"You want pancakes for breakfast? Or poptarts?" she asks, serious discussion obviously over.

"Ummm, poptart?"

"Okay," she says, sliding off my ribs. I take my first deep breath of the morning and inhale Catherine's perfume still clinging to the blanket and my clothes. I close my eyes, listening to the kitchen sounds for a while before the weight returns. "Where's my poptart?" I ask.

"Still in the toaster," Catherine says.

"You're heavier than Lindsey," I say, eyes still closed.

"Too heavy?"

"I'll just ignore that loaded question," I say. "I will say that I was having difficulty breathing when Lindsey was sitting there, though."

"Sleep okay?" she asks, standing and allowing me to sit up before sitting beside me.

I nod and then shrug. "Your couch is too short."

"Play your cards right and it's the last time you sleep on it."

"Ahhhh."

"Lindsey can bunk with me and you can use her room. Right, Linds?"

Lindsey plops down on the couch, a plate with four poptarts in her hand. She hands me one. "Right. But it'd be easier to kiss each other if you two used mom's room."

"Lindsey!"

"What? It would."

I'm caught between laughing and dying of embarrassment. Catherine and Lindsey are glaring at each other before dissolving into giggles. I maintain my dignity by stuffing a poptart into my mouth.

"This is okay, Lindsey?" Catherine asks seriously.

"It's cool, Mom," Lindsey assures her. "As long as you don't start singing," and then she drops the plate of poptarts onto my lap and jumps to her feet. She starts to sing, very loudly and pitched ear hurting high, "the hills are alive with the sound of kissing!"

"I'm going to kill her," Catherine commented as she watched Lindsey run from the room.

"No, you're not."

"No, I'm not. You sticking around for awhile?"

"Yeah," I say. "Yeah, I am."

THE END


End file.
